


all cooped up

by alittlebitmaybe



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drinking Games, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Multi, Non-Explicit Sex, Polyamory, Roommates, quarantine au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:33:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23497567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alittlebitmaybe/pseuds/alittlebitmaybe
Summary: Geralt's old university roommate, Jaskier, needs a place to ride out the pandemic. Geralt and Yennefer conveniently have a couch and Geralt, inconveniently, has a crush.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 53
Kudos: 653
Collections: oh YES





	all cooped up

Jaskier is draped on the couch, a controller in his hands, when Geralt and his grocery-laden arms struggle in through the door and stop dead. He backs out of the door, double checks the house number, and kicks his way in once more.

“What,” he says.

Jaskier glances up and smiles. “Geralt, good to see you, mate.” He gestures to the TV. “New Animal Crossing out.”

“What _are you doing here_ ,” Geralt clarifies.

“Ah, well, I’m between gigs, you see, and I’ve been couch surfing, and big scary stuff is going down out there. I’m sure you’ve noticed.” Geralt has just spent a hellish three hours attempting to buy groceries. He has noticed. “And I ran into darling Yennefer, um, well, at your front door, when I knocked on it, and she graciously extended me the offer of surfing on this couch, in particular, until this blows over.” Geralt now sees the overflowing duffel bag and guitar case tucked into the corner by the lamp.

“Yen is letting you stay here. Indefinitely.”

“Yes?”

“During a pandemic.”

“…Yes?”

Geralt storms to the kitchen and drops the grocery bags unceremoniously on the counter. A potato rolls onto the floor. Jaskier follows him hastily, but Geralt heads up the stairs bellowing, “ _Yen!_ ”

She’s curling her dark hair in the bathroom mirror, unbothered. “Oh, Geralt, good, you made it back. Have you washed your hands, love?” she asks.

“Jaskier is on our couch. Playing Animal Crossing.”

“Jaskier is _behind you_ , and he’s between gigs, the poor thing.”

“I told him that, darling, but he seems rather upset,” Jaskier says over Geralt’s shoulder. 

Geralt puts a hand to his chest to hold him back and crowds closer to Yennefer. Pitched low, he says, “May we talk in private.”

Yennefer sets down her curling iron. Her violet eyes pierce him, twinkling with humor. “Jaskier, give me and the big lug a moment, if you would.” She pulls Geralt into the bathroom and shuts the door, leaning back onto the countertop. Geralt turns on the tap in the bathtub for good measure. Knowing Jaskier, he’s got his ear pressed to the door.

“What’s the fucking game, Yen,” he asks, arms crossed.

“Well, really, Geralt, were you just going to leave him out on the street? He’s just a boy.” 

“He’s twenty four.” 

“Alright, he is a _man_ , and your _friend_ , Geralt, however you may treat him and whatever else you may think of him.” She has the absolute audacity to wink at him, smirking.

He remembers a rough night on the floor of this very bathroom, mumbling some unfortunate things at Yen while she rubbed his back. Things about Jaskier’s fingers, his smile, that lock of hair that hangs in his bright blue eyes. Very unfortunate. He hisses, “I told you that in confidence.”

“And I’ve kept that confidence, haven’t I? Look, can’t we just throw him a bone? You should’ve seen his face when he showed up. Like a puppy in a dumpster. You would’ve done the same as me.”

Geralt sighs.

“It will probably just be a week or two. We’ve got a couch and food to spare. He needs us, Geralt.” She moves to him, lifts her face, places her hands on his crossed arms. He breathes her in, lilacs, and his shoulders relax. Like magic. 

“I am happy with you,” he says quietly into the space between them. “More than happy. I know what I said, but you know I don’t need him.” Her lips brush his.

“I do know, love, but he needs us. Let’s just see what happens. Yeah?”

She kisses him softly again, and his hands clutch her waist to bring her in tighter. She presses against him, caressing his face lightly. 

A knock on the door startles them apart. “Oi,” Jaskier calls, “do I get to stay? Just wondering. I can’t hear well over the tap.” Geralt groans into Yen’s neck. “Also, I do not look like a dumpster puppy. I did hear that and I didn’t like it. Though, I suppose, if it endears me, then by all means, I am a dumpster puppy. Your dumpster puppy. Please let me stay.”

“Want to bet which one of us will murder him first?” Yen whispers conspiratorially. Geralt hums back before releasing her to open the door. Jaskier is leaning against the doorframe in a decidedly unnatural pose, fringe mussed and loudly patterned shirt undone halfway down his chest. That one lock of hair hangs stubbornly down onto his nose. Geralt’s fingers twitch.

“You will stay. None of us are leaving until this passes. You will not use Yen’s makeup without permission, and you will not touch anything in the kitchen under any circumstances.”

Geralt starts making his way back down the stairs. The groceries need to be put away. Jaskier, inevitably, tags along.

“Alright, alright, but what if I want a tea, Geralt?” he says, sitting himself backward on a chair at the table. His pants are mint green and tight. Jaskier always dresses with the subtlety of a traffic cone that a five year old girl has doodled on. At university, his half of the wardrobe had turned into approximately his four-fifths of the wardrobe, and Geralt’s clothing had always smelled perfumey, like the vanilla-honey-citrus that wafts off Jaskier even now.

“I have witnessed you manage to set an electric kettle on fire. I will make the tea.” Geralt puts some broccoli in the fridge and picks up the package of salmon. 

Jaskier’s ringed fingers tap the back of the chair. “That was one time. What if I wake up before you and want some breakfast? Just a bit of toast?”

“You shocked yourself with the toaster in third year.”

“I know not to do it _again_.”

Geralt grunts and places his bag of candy bars on the highest shelf in the cupboard, pushed all the way back so Yen won’t see. He has to have some nice things.

“Look,” Jaskier says earnestly, “thanks for letting me stay. I know it’s been a while and you’ve got a good thing going with Yen, and your life is, you know. Together. And mine isn’t, yet, and that’s not your fault. But it’s good to—to have somewhere to go. I’ll pay you rent.”

His face is too open. It reminds Geralt of late nights in the dorms, Jaskier plucking out melodies and scribbling down notes for his composition finals, asking Geralt how it sounds. He turns to the dishes in the sink. “You won’t.”

“I—I don’t know if that means you don’t believe that I will, or that I don’t need to.”

“Latter.” He sets the dishes on the drying rack and towels off his hands.

“Oh,” Jaskier says. “Well, thank you. Appreciate it, Geralt. I’ll help out however I can. And if you and Yennefer need some alone time, just warn me off. I’ll take myself for a walk or put my earbuds in or something. Make myself scarce. No worries, I know the drill.”

Geralt turns and looks at him, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“She’s a beautiful woman, Yen,” Jaskier continues into the silence. “Bet she’s loud.”

There it goes.

“Fuck’s sake, Jaskier,” he says, stomping out of the room and into Yennefer at the bottom of the stairs. Jaskier, again, is tailing him, like they’re attached by a string.

“Sorry, sorry, Geralt, you know I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s the quiet, you know it is. I just can’t stop myself. Sorry, Yen.”

Yen looks at him, bemused. “For what?”

Jaskier opens his mouth, and Geralt puts a finger to his lips, silencing him. “Don’t.” He turns to Yennefer. “Don’t worry about it. He’s running his mouth.”

Yen shoots him a predatory smile and lifts an eyebrow. “Oh? He can run his mouth near me any time.” Jaskier smiles back and winks. 

Geralt groans. “For the love of God, don’t encourage him.”

Jaskier holds up his hands placatingly. “Fine, fine, before you have a fit I’ll just go back to my island. Thank you, both, again, genuinely.”

When he has safely returned to the couch, Yen looks up at Geralt and tucks a loose strand of hair behind his ear. Geralt basks in her gaze, in the blessed silence. Her nails scratch against his scalp and he hums, closing his eyes.

“You’ve missed him,” she says. “He was next to you for four years. It’s okay to miss him, Geralt. It’s okay to feel other things, too. We’ll work it out. I’m flexible here.” She pauses. “You know he slept with Triss before graduation? She said he’s, er, talented. And he’s important to you. I might not have been joking completely about that come on.” Geralt stares at her. She doesn’t back down, or try to fill the silence, as Jaskier must. She just looks back, lips quirked.

“You’re kidding,” he says.

“Let’s just play it by ear,” she replies.

  
A week passes in relative quiet as they get their feet underneath them. Geralt and Yennefer work from home as best they can, Yen constantly muting herself on conference calls to swear at her boss, Tissaia, and Geralt giving personal fitness sessions over Skype to his richer clientele. Jaskier strums and hums under his breath, uses Geralt’s game consoles even when Geralt sits down to relax after work. Geralt constantly finds Jaskier’s socks on tables and in the couch cushions, and Jaskier eats all their goddamn hot Cheetos until his lips and fingers are stained red. Geralt bangs on the bathroom door each morning when Jaskier takes his forty minute showers, averting his eyes when he emerges warm and damp in a scented steam cloud, not even a little apologetic.

A week of Jaskier being infuriatingly, unbearably present in Geralt’s space, again, after nearly three years of only meeting up for drinks and gigs, and Geralt is going to combust for one reason or another. He had mainly worked through his little crush at university, dealing with term after term of Jaskier dragging him to parties and then ditching him for cooler friends, of Jaskier keeping him up all night when he had workouts at fuck o’clock in the morning, of constantly walking in on Jaskier and his bed partners in various states of undress because Jaskier _refused_ to give him any kind of heads up. Geralt had been relieved to get his own place after school. The peace and quiet suited him, and his clothes overall were covered in less glitter. He got more serious with Yen, who was all edges, no nonsense, the most brilliant woman he’d ever met, and forgot about Jaskier until he started getting texts with dates and times and venues. He had gone to one, and then more, and Yen had started coming, and then years passed and Geralt was on his bathroom floor with Yen holding back his hair, saying things he would not take back but definitely regretted, Jaskier’s smooth voice and familiar lyrics fresh in his mind. 

By the following Friday night the outside world shows no signs of improving, so Yen opens a bottle of champagne and Geralt grills steaks in the garden, because fuck it. They eat around the fire pit as dusk dwindles into night, Yen and Jaskier babbling about reality dating shows and new albums or whatever other pop culture they’re consuming at the moment. It’s Greek to Geralt, who tips his head back in his lawn chair and just breathes for a while. He’d made the mistake of checking the news on his phone while he waited for the steaks to cook. It had made his skin feel too tight. He’s been trying to disengage, but sometimes he just has to know.

He doesn’t notice that it’s gone quiet until Jaskier, of course, says, “Let’s play a game!”

Geralt cracks an eye. “What, like a board game?”

“No, Geralt, not like a board game, like a We’ve-Got-Decent-Champagne-So-Let’s-Waste-It-Playing-Never-Have-I-Ever game.”

Yennefer says, “Oh, shit, yes,” like a goddamn traitor, and Geralt sighs.

“Thought I might get some support,” Jaskier grins. “I’ll start, then. Never have I ever…willingly gotten up before dawn to play sports.”

“If you’re just going to target me the whole time, I’m not playing,” Geralt complains. Nevertheless, he drinks.

“Ah, it was just a warm up. You next, big guy.”

With a glint in his eye, Geralt says, “Never have I ever paid money for a club owner to let me on stage for five minutes.”

Jaskier splutters. “Oh come now!” he says, gulping champagne. “Fair play, I suppose.”

“Jaskier,” Yen laughs, “you _didn’t_. How desperate of you.”

Geralt tips his head. “Full-on bribed the guy.”

“Well, I tried batting my eyelashes at him and that didn’t work, so I just jumped all the way to plan C and tipped him a bit for his time. He paid _me_ for the next show, I’ll have you know. Lucky he didn’t make me to go to plan D.”

Geralt is working himself up to pretending he didn’t understand that particular piece of innuendo, pushing down the memory of coming home from the library to Jaskier on his knees in front of his duet partner with the blinds fucking wide open, for some reason he remembers that vividly, when Yen crows, “Never have I ever sucked dick for a favor!” and Jaskier pops open their second bottle.

“Might as well keep this one for myself the way this is going,” he says, tipping it back. His Adam’s apple bobs. Geralt sinks down in his seat.

“Alright,” he continues, swiping his shirtsleeve across his mouth, “what haven’t I done? Christ, this is harder than it should be.”

Yen leans toward him, swirling her glass. “I’m sure you can come up with something, Jask. Don’t hold back.”

“Darling, have you _met_ me,” he says. “Fine. Never have I ever participated in pegging.”

Yennefer downs the remainder of her drink as Geralt chokes. “Drink up, love,” she says, pouring another. On his hands and knees, her soft hands down his back, a stranger’s hands pressing Jaskier’s wrists into his pillow. Geralt drinks, glaring at her. He needs to socially distance himself from both of them.

Jaskier looks between them, fingers still wrapped around the neck of his bottle, his face uncharacteristically inscrutable. “Oh, I love that for you two.”

“Shut up,” Geralt tells him weakly. “Never have I ever snogged a prof.” Yennefer and Jaskier both drink without hesitation.

Geralt lifts an eyebrow, surprised. “Yen, really?”

She shrugs. “Anthropology is a sexy subject, Geralt.”

“Not Istredd!” Jaskier gasps. “Oho, I should have guessed. Good on you, babe.”

Geralt remembers her late night TA meetings. She said Istredd kept strange hours, and it wasn’t the weirdest thing Geralt had ever heard about a professor. They hadn’t been together, not really, but a small part of him stings that she’d never mentioned it. 

“Thank you, thank you,” Yen is saying, bowing dramatically. “Who’d you go after, Jaskier?”

“Which time?”

“Jesus,” Geralt blurts. “I only knew about Marx, who taught, what? Songwriting?” 

Jaskier snorts in response. “Oh god, he was the worst. I don’t even count him. Tosser. The best, if you must know, Yen, my crowning glory, was Stael. Goddess, she was. The others I may share someday, if you’re lucky or I’m drunk enough.” Spots of pink are sitting high on his cheeks, probably well on his way to “drunk enough” already. Yennefer, too, is getting there, though she looks perfectly put together. Geralt knows the signs, can see it in her unfocused eyes and the loose tilt of her smile. 

She meets his eyes and levels him with a mischievous stare. “My turn again,” she says, and Geralt _hmm_ s, gripping the arm of his chair. She’s up to something. 

Jaskier salutes her with the champagne bottle. “Do your worst, my lady.”

Geralt shakes his head at her minutely, which only has her smirking as she comes out with, “Never have I ever got off thinking about my university roommate.”

He is halfway to standing, ready to drag her inside, saying “Alright, time for bed,” when Jaskier raises the bottle to his lips and takes a long, deep pull. He releases it with a small pop and runs his free hand through his hair, smiling sheepishly. 

“Good one, very embarrassing,” Jaskier murmurs. Geralt falls back into his chair silently. It feels like he is short circuiting.

Yen looks at him challengingly. “Well, Geralt? Don’t want to give him the wrong idea, do you?”

Geralt says, “You are the most insufferable woman, sometimes,” and polishes off his glass, then the dregs remaining in the bottle he and Yen had been sharing, too. Jaskier gapes.

“You don’t—not about—not _me_ , Geralt, surely. Yennefer?” he says, turning to her for help, though she’s the one who baited the hook. 

“Yes, _you_ , Jaskier. Holy fuck, men are dull. Geralt, love, tell him.” Geralt’s skin buzzes, champagne fizz in his veins, his mind still trying to catch up. He hears her vaguely. “Tell him what you told me. Go on.”

“Is this what you meant by _playing it by ear_ ,” he grits out. A nameless girl sitting on Jaskier’s lap at a party, her tongue in his mouth and his hand high on her thigh. Jaskier passed out on his bed, face down, in only floral print boxer briefs. Oh, God.

“Playing it by—I don’t know what’s going on here, at all, but I’m a little frightened, honestly, and you know, I can’t leave. So there’s that.”

Geralt and Yen continue their nonverbal standoff as Geralt’s brain keeps betraying him. Jaskier on stage, sweating, beaming; Jaskier in Ray-Bans and Geralt’s tank top on the grassy quad in May; Jaskier waving at him across the dining hall at dinnertime, carrying a plate of waffles. Jaskier, now, the flames casting uneven shadows over his confused, hopeful—yes, hopeful—face.

Yennefer waves him on, impatient. No pressure. He rolls his shoulders back.

Then he stands, pulls Jaskier up by his silly shirt, and kisses him. They’re nearly of a height, and he overshoots a little, catches the stubbly corner of Jaskier’s mouth before correcting course. Just a soft press of lips, breathing each other’s air, and Jaskier relaxes into him, wraps the arm holding the champagne bottle around his neck. Geralt’s palms land at his waist, thumbs pressing into his hip bones. 

“Oh,” Jaskier breathes, pulling back slightly. “Yes, I see, I think.”

“You’re both so fucking stupid,” Yen says gleefully. “But lucky for all of us, we’ve got all the time in the world now.”

Jaskier startles at the reminder of Yennefer’s presence. “Um, Geralt, should I—we—be—you know—in front of your lovely, committed girlfriend?”

 _Fuck it._ The theme of the night. “She wants you, too,” Geralt rasps into Jaskier’s neck. He noses along the cut of his jaw where he smells like vanilla and aftershave. 

“Ah, that is, that is very terrifying, and very sexy of her.” 

Geralt grins, his mouth now resting near Jaskier’s collarbone. “Is this okay.”

“Is this… _Mother_ of—” Jaskier huffs, disentangling himself. The bottle sloshes as he brandishes it at both of them in turn. “Is this _okay_ , he asks! Bloody only been years, years of—God, champagne makes me dizzy.” He hands the bottle to Yen, who appears entertained. “Thank you, dear. Years, Geralt, of wanting—you’ve heard the songs—oh, come here.”

His arms are once more full of Jaskier, who now seems insistent upon climbing him, a calf hooked around his leg, hands gripping his shoulders, mouth pressed back to his in an open kiss. Geralt grasps him and keeps up. He rucks up the vibrantly patterned shirt, gets his hands on soft skin, the small of Jaskier’s back. The warmth of him settles somewhere deep in Geralt’s bones. Jaskier sighs beautifully.

Oh, they could do this forever. 

“Boys,” Yennefer says, “not to intrude, but would either of you like to take this inside? I am feeling quite cold and excluded.”

Without hesitation, Jaskier has pulled away again and gone to her. Geralt watches, bereft, as he first brushes her hair lovingly away from her face, then leans down and kisses her hungrily. When Yen jumps and wraps her legs around his waist, Jaskier catches her with ease and walks them toward the house.

Geralt follows, his gut twisting with heat and champagne.

His king bed, while one hundred percent necessary for the survival of his and Yen’s relationship, has never before fulfilled its true worth. He can’t sleep, as usual. Yen is breathing steadily to his left, hugging a pillow to her bare chest. She’d taken off her makeup before they passed out, leaving her looking young and soft and open. He loves her every second, with his whole body, but like this he just gazes at her in wonderment. He would brush his knuckles down her spine, not enough to wake her, but enough for her to know. He can’t reach at the moment, though, with Jaskier plastered along his right side, and oh, isn’t that a wonder in itself?

Jaskier in sleep, as in all things, is remarkably loud. This is not news to Geralt, but it is the first time Jaskier’s snuffles and hums are pressed into his own skin. The first time Jaskier’s fingertips tap against his ribcage sporadically, the first time Geralt can press his nose into his hair and inhale undisturbed, the first time he can grip the dip at Jaskier’s waist and just hold on. It is not what he imagined. Jaskier is a goddamn furnace, and they are both prickled with sweat, but somehow Jaskier’s feet are fucking freezing. And his breath tickles along Geralt’s jaw. And every once in a while, he jerks and snorts quite unbecomingly. 

It’s perfect. Geralt should be able to sleep, bracketed at last by his loved ones. If not now, he’ll never get a good night’s rest under any circumstances. Sad to consider. He can’t get up without disturbing them, so he just watches, and meditates, and remembers.

Yennefer gasping with Jaskier against her, grinding down, nails digging into his shoulders, Geralt’s lips at her breast. Both of their hands on, around him, Yen whispering, “Don’t leave out Geralt, now, dove,” pressing Jaskier’s mouth gently down with a hand in his hair, down, _down_ , Jesus. Jaskier’s fingers pressing in with Geralt’s murmured assent. Jaskier’s near worshipful face as Geralt sank onto him, Yen against his back, hand around him. The sounds he made.

Geralt grunts, shifting. Jaskier’s thigh is slung heavily over his midsection, unabashed. He touches it, because he can.

It is a long night, but eventually he must doze.

When the sky brightens, he decides to risk it and extracts himself from Jaskier’s balmy grasp. 

“What the fuck,” Jaskier protests half-heartedly. Geralt shushes him. Before heading downstairs he sets the bottle of ibuprofen out on the bathroom counter, just in case.

Yennefer finds him scrambling eggs and frying bacon at the stovetop an hour or so later. She is sporting one of Geralt’s ratty t-shirts and a lovebite under her jaw, hair pulled back into a wild bun. She sits in the same chair Jaskier chose a week earlier and hugs her knees to her chest.

“You’re up early,” she says. “Couldn’t sleep?”

Geralt _hmm_ s.

She nods. “Feeling cooped up yet?” 

“Getting there.”

“It’s hard,” she says. “The uncertainty of this whole mess. And we’ve gone and complicated things for ourselves, haven’t we.” Geralt shoots her a look of disbelief. “Well,” she concedes, “I suppose it was mostly me. You’re welcome, by the way.”

Geralt sets down his spatula. “Do you think, maybe, we should have talked more about this?”

“I told you to talk, it was you that kissed him, you great brute.”

He can’t argue with that. “Yen, do you think he’ll—”

Yen cuts him off with a laugh. “You’re worried about _him_? Oh, he’ll be fine. He loves you, Geralt. I think maybe he always has. I watched him climb you like a goddamn tree last night. The boy was _desperate_. Let’s just—”

“If you say ‘play it by ear’, I’m giving your breakfast to Jaskier.”

She has the gall to roll her eyes at him. He takes the bacon out of the pan and switches on the kettle.

“Geralt, we’ll be okay, I promise you,” she says quietly. “Us, everyone. The world. This will pass.”

He grunts. She knows him too well. “I just want—I’m not. Helping.”

“For once, love,” she says, standing and pulling down three mugs from the cupboard, “this is honestly the most helpful thing we can do.”

“What, a fry up? I agree,” Jaskier says, striding into the kitchen in his underwear, looking spectacularly mussed. That lock of hair in his eyes. He shoves a piece of bacon in his mouth. “Morning, all. Great bacon, love. Have I missed anything? It’s goddamn early for a quarantine Saturday.” He swallows and confidently, casually kisses Geralt on the cheek. “Would anyone make me a tea? I’ve been disallowed, you see. Yennefer, _dear_ heart, you are a lifesaver.”

As Jaskier chatters on, Geralt meets Yen’s eyes. She winks at him, and he manages to smile back.

**Author's Note:**

> I sneezed on my keyboard and this happened. Whoops. Well, I have to deal with quarantine anxiety somehow.
> 
> Disclaimer to say I am American but I wanted the characters to be able to keep their voices, so I relied on my extensive background of watching British TV. Hence this fic is set nowhere in particular.
> 
> Find me @alittlebitmaybe on tumblr if you wanna


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